Elf in a Cage
by Inconsequential
Summary: An Elf fighting in the Last Alliance is transported to a strange place, for some things which never should have come to pass have occurred, and things which should have been remembered have been forgotten...
1. Prologue

**Prologue:**  
  
Barthant was dying. He knew it from the depths of his immortal soul, knew it even before the fatal blow had fallen upon his neck. Before he fell into the darkness, he had one last glimpse of Arda. Then all was engulfed in shadow.  
  
Until he awoke with a jolt that felt like a landing, to find himself in a strange city. He felt his neck, incredulous, and found it clean of blood and free of injury. He took stock of himself, and saw that he retained all clothes and weapons, battle-worn though they were. Then, with his sword unsheathed and ready for any untoward business, he faced the city.  
  
His senses were immediately overwhelmed. The air shimmered with heat, smells and bright colors, and people streamed across the rock floor of the place, jabbering in a strange tongue. Huge metal beasts streamed past down a dark path, honking and screeching like nothing he had ever heard. Above him, towers loomed high into the sky. Some seemed carved of a single stone, others glittered with shining panels as bright as the facets in the eye of an insect.  
  
Before him stood the silent masses of people. They had gathered in a rough semicircle, and were gaping at him, edging forwards. Some rubbed their eyes, as though ridding themselves of the aftereffects of a too-bright light.  
  
In the distance, he heard the wail of a horn over the babble of the crowd. It was approaching. He held out his hands to the crowd, but they seemed to surge and growl in the heat of the day. He did not know what was coming, and he was certain these were not the Undying Lands.  
  
Under the glaring light reflected from a tower as the sun set, he fell to his knees in defeat, and the curious mob tightened their circle inexorably about him.  
  
The melancholy wail of the horn drew closer at an impossible speed, and he could soon hear a voice echoing, unnaturally loud, from beyond the throng which encircled him. The crowd parted, and he was seized in rough arms and divested of his bow and sword. He elected not to break and run out of pure common sense. Unresisting, he let himself be towed along to the steaming metal beast which rested at an angle on one side of the black path. He felt himself shoved into the gaping maw of the thing, eyes wide in fear.  
  
Once inside, he saw it was not beast so much as machine, like one of the foul creations of the Dwarves. It moved as a chariot without horses, and impossibly quickly. His stomach lurched, feeling as though it were jerked out of his body with every forward motion. He was going to be sick, and he was trapped in this tiny metal space.  
  
A sudden urge to leave this contraption, and _now_, took hold of him. Losing all sensibility, he fought like a wild animal, tearing and clawing at the door of the thing despite the metal bonds they had forced over his wrists. He succeeded in smashing the door so that the metal crumbled and gave way, desperation lending him extra strength. Barthant fell from the twisted opening and landed on the black road. He hit the ground hard, and knew no more.  
  
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The policemen in the patrol car brought the vehicle to a screeching halt.  
  
Did you see that, Frank? one asked the other.  
  
Oh, yeah, his companion replied grimly, stepping out of the driver's side door. He bent that metal like it was butter. He unholstered his gun and aimed it at the prone figure warily.  
  
Well, you know, they say in moments of trauma, see, people can do amazing things, the first policeman, Max, answered.  
  
Frank said, That's a crock. This guy has something just plain weird about him. I don't think he'd seen a car before, either.  
  
Well, see, that's my point exactly! See, it's trauma because he's never seen a car, so that's how he did it.  
  
Rolling his eyed, Frank held his gun warily and circled behind the strange man. When he'd been a kid he'd dreamed of being a knight, and this guy looked a lot like one, long hair, weapons and all. That's a reasonable explanation, Frank though sourly, time travel.  
  
He rolled his eyes again and cautiously tapped the man on the shoulder. He didn't respond, so Frank turned to Max and asked him to radio for an ambulance. He stood waiting for the ambulance to arrive, watching the odd man's chest rise and fall. Time was, his job was to shoot them, not take care of them.  
  
Gazing harder at the man's profile against the ground, he noticed something rather odd about the ears. They were... pointed. Very pointed. And he had no beard.  
  
said Max, following Frank's gaze, What is this guy, some kinda fairy or something? He snickered.  
  
said Frank slowly. He's an Elf.


	2. Chapter One: I Once Was Lost

**Chapter One: I Once Was Lost**  
  
Barthant woke alone in a white cavern, tied to a bier. His arms and legs were secured with thick, leather cords to the white-draped platform on which he lay.  
  
He hated being tied. More than hatred, he could not stand it, the futility of pulling and pulling, never to find freedom, always coming back to rest in the same position. His limbs chafed. He could not breathe. Air, he needed air. His chest tightened as he flexed his pectoral muscles and straightened his arms, straining against the bonds again and again until his face ran with sweat and tears and he succumbed again to a numb sleep, heavy and drugged.  
  
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Dr. Defir made a note on her clipboard as she walked through the crowded psychiatric ward of Whitney Hospital. A voice called her name from the nurses' booth and she walked over to the central island of the ward, opening the locked doors with her key. From inside, a blank row of doors faced her on all sides through the clear plastic wraparound windows, with neatly printed names labeling the people inside. A few had no names yet, and it was for one of these cases that she now came here.  
  
A grizzled police officer stood awkwardly among the busy nurses as they muttered echoing orders through headsets. He twirled his hat in his hands awkwardly, running a thumb around the sweat-stained inner brim. His bald head shone under the harsh florescent lights, and he moved forward eagerly upon reading her name tag.  
  
Ah, Dr. Defir. I've been waiting here for you. It's about the patient we brought in yesterday, right?  
  
She gave a nod. Mr. Frank Brumsen, is it?  
  
At his nod, she went on, frowning at her clipboard. Have you any idea of who this person is? Did he say anything to you before being rendered unconscious?  
  
Well, now that I recall he did say something. Muttered it, more like. I can't remember what it was, sounded kind of like one of those European languages, Finnish or the like. But... he hesitated. He was dressed pretty strangely, if I may say. Almost medieval. Like a knight, or... something. Frank gave a weak chuckle.  
  
Well, we do sometimes get patients with advances delusions, Dr. Defir said absently, scribbling something on the clipboard. But his personal effects were unusual, I'll grant. Let's see... She pulled out a small piece of paper resembling a restaurant receipt, and read off it, squinting a bit through her glasses.  
One sword, steel. One longbow, beech wood, weathered. One quiver, chased with aluminum, holding some twenty arrows fletched with feathers from an eagle. No less than TEN throwing knives, also crafted of steel. The man was armed to the teeth. His clothing: armor for the torso and shoulders, lightweight steel. Shin guards. A leather tunic, linen pants. Leather boots, soft-soled.  
Do you remember any comments he may have made about his attire? Dr. Defir looked up at Frank for the first time.  
  
he said. But... I noticed his ears... and when we pulled him, he didn't seem to weigh much at all. Don't you think there's anything... _strange_ about him?  
  
Dr. Defir smiled. Mr. Brumsen, I deal with people labeled as strange' every day. This case is a little out of the ordinary, but not too much so. The ears? Plastic surgery perhaps, or a random mutation. They do happen, you know. Almost anything can happen to a person living in this crazy world of ours. She clicked her pen shut with an efficient tap.  
  
Frank nodded, mute.  
  
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to the patient. Oh yes, and one last thing: do you remember him giving you a name?  
  
Frank shook his head again and made for the locked doors, blushing as the handle made no movement under his hand. He stepped aside and let Dr. Defir open the door and usher him down the hall and out of the ward.  
  
Dr. Defir pressed the door shut carefully behind the man as he left. She walked to the isolation room where the stranger had been sleeping in restraints with 500 mL of Thenophrine in him. Her worn sneakers squeaked efficiently on the cold, white tile as she walked. When she got to the room, she was surprised to see the man's face and head wet with the sweat of exertion, though the rest of his body was dry and the skin of his hands was cool.   
  
He should not have woken for some time yet. She shrugged. He was asleep now, in any case. Moving closer to the man, she turned his face gently to the side and examined the ears, her curiosity sparked by the policeman's comments. She frowned, looking more closely. There were no scars, and the ears were perfectly symmetrical. She felt the tip gently. It was real cartilage, and the ridges and whorls of the ear tip connecting smoothly in with the rest on the ear all the way into the base.   
  
she said out loud, making a note to ask for his DNA tests right away. Since the human genome had been fully decoded about ten years back, much was now possible in that area.  
  
She continued her examination, now feeling his his skull under the hair, checking the area which had received trauma when he had fallen onto the pavement. Her hands searched again and again, but no swelling or warmth was to be found, just smooth, cool flesh. How odd. She would have to make note of this as well.  
  
She had just settled down in a nearby chair to finish her notes when the man's eyes snapped open.  
  
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Barthant awoke for the second time, his mind feeling less foggy. He feebly struggled upward through waves of torpor which settled on him despite his most valiant efforts to rouse himself. What form of vile potion or spell was this that they had ministered to him to create such an evil state? He noted that his head throbbed, too, but already the ache was leaving him. Feeling sharper, now, he opened his eyes to the white chamber, wondering again what had occurred so that he slept now with closed eyes, unaware of any of his surroundings.  
  
Sitting close by, on a strangely-crafted chair, was a woman. She was of the race of Men, and looked vaguely like a Southron, though he could not truly place her. Her graying hair was pulled back severely, and though she wore what seemed to be nightclothes, her officious manner led him to belief that she was some form of healer. He looked at her imploringly for a moment, as she sat silently. She did not appear uncomfortable, rather, she seemed to be waiting for him to speak. He did so, running his tongue over parched lips.  
  
Brennil, gerin bad, he whispered. _Lady, let me go_.  
  
Do you speak English, sir? the woman said slowly, in an inquiring tone. He could only shake his head helplessly at the foreign words, looking at her with pleading in his eyes. He could not stand these bonds for much longer.  
  
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Dr. Melanie Defir was no stranger to body language, or spoken tongues. And every aspect of this man's voice and the tenseness of his body under the restraints showed his acute discomfort. Claustrophobia, she diagnosed. It would be cruel to keep the poor man bound like this. She flipped open her mobile phone and called for backup, two burly male nurses in case this patient turned violent. She had seen what he had done to the door of the cop car, in Polaroids snapped hastily at the station and sent to the hospital. She knew people's adrenaline could enable them to perform amazing feats of strength, but still she took no chances now. Once Hugh and Rob, the nurses, had arrived, she efficiently undid the bonds of the man lying in the bed.  
  
He jerked upwards immediately, and with a motion reminiscent of the speed and grace of a striking snake, coiled himself on the bed, seated tailor-fashion. The nurses had moved forward at his swift movement but relaxed when he seemed content to do no more than rub his reddened wrists. His skin was stark white save for the reddened areas, pale as porcelain. His face was slightly tanned and beardless, and his hair was long and dark brown, tangled from his struggles against the bonds. The eyes staring out at them unblinkingly were hazel in color, and Dr. Defir noted the extra layer of clear membrane which had risen under the top lid. It rose and fell over his eyes at regular intervals, far more often than the slow blinks he gave with his outer lids.  
  
Very strange, indeed.   
  
She resolved to get a multilingual translator in this ward first thing the next day. In the meantime, she would go over his DNA test results and perhaps give Mr. Brumsen another call. Something told her he knew more than he was letting on.  
  
**Disclaimer**: I own none of the ideas from Tolkien's work included in this story.  



	3. Chapter Two: But Now am Found

**Chapter Two: I'm Found  
**  
Frank Brumsen had just entered his house after a hard day of officework. The air was tepid and the entrance hall dark. He switched on the light and let out a stream of curses as the bulb sputtered, snapped and died.  
  
Groaning audibly, he pulled the stepladder out and got a spare bulb from the kitchen cabinet. He had just stepped onto the ladder when his phone rang in the bedroom. Stepping down carefully, he turned and sprinted full-out for the phone, managing to lift it out of its cradle just as the last ring sounded.  
  
he said breathlessly. In the background he heard his answering machine message start to play.  
  
  
_Hello, it's Frank Brumsen. I' m not at home right now, but you can reach me at the office at 212- 462- 5663 ...BEEP  
  
_I'm sorry, the woman's voice on the other end sounded slightly crackly, to bother you, but there's a bit of a situation regarding the man you and your partner brought in. This is Dr. Defir, by the way. I'd like to ask you to come in tomorrow morning? You do get Saturdays off, I presume?  
  
Frank declined to mention that he usually worked Sundays as well, not really doing much, just cruising around in his patrol car. He was a senior officer, so it was allowed. Mostly they didn't even send Max with him.  
  
Eh, no, it's fine, Frank told her absently. He cradled the phone with his jaw and pulled over a pad and pen with his hands. What time would that be?  
  
Well, let's see... There was a pause, and Frank could make out the rustle and sigh of shuffled papers. Eleven o'clock good for you?  
  
Frank said. He hung the phone up as though it were made of fragile glass, and went to sit in his library, thumbing over his worn and dusty copies of Tolkien's books. He had not read them since his childhood in this very house, but now for some reason he spent the rest of the afternoon in his old armchair, reading until the darkness of the room reminded him of the blown-out lightbulb and he went to fix it, leaving The Fellowship of the Ring open on the seat of the armchair.  
  
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Barthant felt more comfortable now. The day had drawn on, as he saw from the dusky light filtering through the small window high on the wall. He craned up to this brief glimpse of the outdoors, stretching his neck like a flower seeking nourishment.  
  
He had been taken to a new chamber, this one not draped in white but rather in gray, from the worn woolen bedcovering to the dingy walls, which appeared to be crafted of weathered mud or some such substance. He sat here for a while, always watched by at least one Man seated by the locked door. For a time he simply paced the confining chamber, shaking life back into his limbs and waiting for the welts on his wrists to heal. He tried to comb out his hair with his fingers, but it was no use.  
  
As darkness fell and the last red light of the sun made its entrance though the window, two nurses came and propelled him gently into yet another room, with a high pallet covered in a stiff covering, and two chairs. There was an odd contraption in the corner. He sat as indicated upon the pallet. He was no longer afraid of this place; any evil done to him would have already occurred, if it was ever to happen. The best explanation he had was this was the mysterious Outer Earth, not Arda or Valinor but something in-between, something no one in Arda knew existed. He sighed, and fixed his mind on the language he heard the Men speaking. Elves had taught the first Men to speak; he should have no trouble learning the language of these Men. However, the two quieted and moved back to the doorway as the healer he had seen before entered. He knew she was a mere fraction of his age, but she felt wise in a way only the aged among Mortals could. Perhaps it was the color of the hair, he mused.  
  
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Dr. Defir had come in to examine the mystery man after her conversation with the policeman. She decided to conduct the routine physical herself, rather than letting an intern or nurse do it, because of the uniqueness of this case. There were many things about the man she did not understand, and Melanie Defir did not enjoy being confused.  
  
The examination did nothing to remedy the situation. The man's pulse was 40 bpm. His blood pressure was so low she could not detect it at all. Yet he seemed to be in good health; his double-lidded eyes focused normally, though they seemed sensitive to light. He was taller than she had expected; 6'5'' on the nose. When he stepped on the scale, his weight moved from100 to 120 pounds, and she gave a frown, jiggling the balance of the old-fashioned scale in confusion. It still showed the same number.  
  
It didn't make any sense. The man looked to weigh at least 180 pounds, muscular and healthy though slimly built. Yet his wrist in her hand had felt unusually light... It could be his bones, she mused. An MRI was in order. The technique had become cheaply available over the last decade, and the new open-air technique was now used to screen almost all patients coming through the hospital in any case.  
  
All right, Dr. Defir said briskly, Let's get him into the MRI.  
  
The man followed the nurses quietly, and Dr. Defir admired his quiet acceptance of his plight. The hospital was not an easy place to be; too often it was disorganized and chaotic, and always a rather harsh environment, for all their efforts. A place where the dead-end cases stayed and the moderately sane left as quickly as possible. And this man seemed wholly unacquainted with the culture, to boot. She had come to the conclusion that he was not shamming his confusion. There were too many other clues and hints pointing to a conclusion so strange her practical mind had no wish to venture there as yet.  
  
The man turned and looked back at her with his disconcerting stare, eyes boring into hers.   
  
All right, he said, and followed the nurses away.  
  
Dr. Defir stood stunned for a moment. Could he then speak English? Why had he not volunteered his knowledge earlier? He did have a strange accent, musical and sounding almost Irish to her ears. Most likely he was just mimicking her. She used the words all right as some less-educated people used : compulsively. He had probably just picked up on that, and the meaning he could have taken from context.  
  
Still. Was it possible he was indeed shamming? An actor of some sort? They did very strange things to their bodies nowadays, with new forms of mutative surgery available for the less faint-hearted and the more open-minded among the rich communities of America. And their minds were just as odd, what with new methods of getting in character. The Doctor disliked actors nearly as much as she disliked being confused, and she really disliked confusion.   
  
Luckily, the policeman was coming the next day; perhaps he could provide some information she sensed he had been holding back. In the meantime she would rely on science, and check his MRI results and DNA tests.  
  
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Barthant let himself be led to yet another machine, this one a large and round upright tube. He was gently guided inside and stood for a time as the thing made odd noises, like a beast about to eat him, and he tensed for a moment until the door was slid open and he was let out.  
  
The women was there, the one he had tried to talk to. He had mimicked what appeared to be a regular affirmative word, and hoped this was indeed the case. It had been meant to assure the healer of his good intentions, as she seemed a bit disconcerted by him. A thought struck him. Had these people never seen Elves before? It was unlikely, but if this was indeed Outer Earth, he supposed it was possible. The Edhellath had never traveled here before and returned to tell of it, that was certain.  
  
Was this Outer Earth, though? The people were strange and they seemed to possess a form of magic, to light their halls with crystals. Perhaps it was mere Dwarven-craft, the Elf thought with a slight curl of his lip as he was led through one of the aforementioned halls back to his chamber, if the dingy room could indeed be named as such.  
  
Once there, he settled down to sleep, keeping his eyes focused on the stars out the window, as he always did when resting. It brought him some comfort, at first, to see the stars in this place, but as he fell deeper into the well of sleep, he saw that they were different from the stars of Arda. He slept watching them nonetheless, comforted by the glow they provided. The light of different stars was still starlight, as he had seen it every night for nearly two thousand years as he slept.  
  
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Sitting late at night in her office going over the MRI results on her hologram computer, Melanie Defir was no longer confused. Or maybe she was more so. In any case, she had examined the MRI of the man and found he had normal lungs and digestive and reproductive organs, but his bones were hollow, like a bird's. Stranger still, they were not made of collagen and polysaccharides, as normal bones were; rather, they were made of a dense layer of living cells, similar to collagen in property. That explained the man's low weight-- his bones were hollow, and the properties of the living cells allowed them to be light without sacrificing any of the strength of human bones.  
  
There was no longer any possibility that this man was human.   
  
His blood was odd, too; he had no bone marrow and so produced no leukocytes (white blood cells), but rather had what she named attack enzymes' in his blood, which immediately neutralized any foreign substance, including, she assumed, any plaque buildup in the arteries, as she could find not a trace of buildup anywhere in his entire network of vessels. His blood was normal, save for the absence of leukocytes, but the red blood cells were apparently able to reproduce on their own, and did so at an amazing rate. They traveled less quickly than a human's blood would travel, but their sheer, ever-increasing numbers sufficed to keep the man oxygenated and alive. His muscles were made of a strange fiber, similar to human muscle tissue but also far lighter. His other organs were normal, though she noted his enhanced visual cortex and odd ear structure.  
  
This was no human. He was a superhuman, and the DNA tests indicated that he had been born this way.  
  
Her reverie was interrupted rudely when a young nurse came skidding around the corner into her office, breathless and apparently having altogether forgotten to use her phone.  
  
It's the patient in room 136D! the nurse gasped. I went for midnight checks and I think he's dead!  
  
Dr. Defir frowned as she followed the nurse back to the room at a fast clip. This should not have happened; indeed, illness was the last thing she would assume of the man according to the strange results she had gotten from the tests. For the patient in room 136D was indeed the mystery being she had just been examining.  
  
She entered the room and stopped, shoulders slumped in relief. The patient's chest rose and fell regularly. He was alive.  
  
The nurse turned to her in alarm, and Dr. Defir noticed the man's eyes were open and glassy, covered in the membrane she had noted earlier.  
  
Don't worry, she told the distraught nurse. He's asleep. He just happens to sleep with his eyes open. You may leave now, she added.  
  
The nurse backed away quickly, her own eyes wide.  
  
This is the last time I take night shift in the psycho ward, she muttered as she made her hurried exit.  
  
Dr. Defir went and stood over the man, and was just bending down to look in his eyes when the membranes flew up and she drew back in surprise. Evidently, he was awake. She made placating gestures with her hands as he looked at her in surprise, and left him to his open-eyed rest. More answers would wait until morning, when the policeman and the translator both arrived at eleven o'clock.  
  
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Frank got up the next morning, June 2, 2013, at six a.m. on the dot, as he usually did. After a quick shower, he dressed in a pair of khakis and a flannel shirt, outdated but comfortable. His feet were covered in police regulation zip-boots, and on his way out he tugged his NYPD baseball cap down on his slightly balding forehead. As he was almost out the door, he remembered something with a start, and moved into the living room. He was not quite sure why he did so, but he picked up his worn copy of The Fellowship of the Ring and took it with him, cradling it to his chest as he walked briskly to his new electric car. He started the silent engine, feeling a bit of nostalgia as the though of the temperamental mutterings of his old Jeep, and drove to Sarabeth's for his breakfast. He usually grabbed a bagel on his way to work, so he figured he could splurge on an expensive meal just this once.   
  
At ten-twenty, he left the restaurant and drove to Whitney Hospital. He felt unusually lighthearted as he drove, and hummed an old song to himself.  
  
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound...  
  
  
**Disclaimer: **I own nothing of Tolkien's creation. I hope, also, that he can forgive me for imbuing his Elves with traits perhaps more mundane than he would have wished. But as they say, advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.   



	4. Chapter Three: Was Blind

**Chapter Three: Was Blind  
  
**Dr. Defir was annoyed. The translator had canceled that morning, citing a scheduling conflict. Ah, well. With the hospital translator computer fluent in over seventy languages, translation would likely be easy enough, when she found out what language the man, or whatever he was, spoke. She gave the order to bring the patient in 136D into the translation room at eleven o'clock. She was fairly certain, by now, that he was not dangerous, and considering his claustrophobia thought it best not to put him in a straitjacket for the short trip to the room.  
  
The time was 10:52 a.m. by her watch when Frank Brumsen entered her unlocked office, carrying an old-fashioned paper book and wearing a baseball cap, which he took off immediately upon walking in. It was an outdated sign of courtesy she had seen him perform before. He sat, now, in the chair opposite her, settling the worn book down gently atop the table in front of him. She wondered why he carried a book when brands of computerized, portable literature had been available for years now. This man in so many ways seemed out of step with the modern world.  
  
Settling down in front of him, she steeled herself to speak. These would be difficult words to get out, and she had no intention of repeating herself.  
  
Mr. Brumsen, she began,The patient you have brought in does not appear to be... well, to be quite frank, he does not appear to be a human.  
  
The man seated across from her seemed oddly unsurprised. She had no idea why she was telling an aged police officer, of all things, the stunning results of the open-air MRI and the DNA tests. She could not put her finger on why it was, exactly, that she trusted this man.  
  
By any account this entire situation was too odd for words.  
  
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The food here was strange to Barthant. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, he picked up the white, bendable eating implements, recognizing the vaguely knife-shaped one and a spoon, but not the other object, with three pointy tines at one end.  
  
Odd. He played with the implement as he examined the edibles. The food itself was not too new to him. There was a round loaf of bread with a hole in its center, a form of juice, bright yellow in color, a hard, round piece of fruit and a container of milk. He ate the round loaf, finding it tasty and filling, and drank the milk. The fruit was tangy and slightly sour, and he did not know what to do with the core which was left when he finished it. With a shrug, he set it down on the tray and moved on to thinking. His thoughts came easier now that the food was safely inside him, and he realized he had not eaten for a over a day.   
  
He began to think of the battle he had left. The Last Alliance of Men and Elves had faced the Dark Lord, besieging him outside of Barad-dur. He was not certain what had been happening that day, year 1441 SA, but somehow he had ended up here, alive. The hunger he had felt not too long ago and other mundane needs made him all too aware that he was alive.  
  
Alive, and somehow, here. Wherever was. It was certainly not his home in Imladris, with his parents and younger brother. War had been such a faraway thing living in the House of Elrond. Until Sauron grew in power, and deceived the Elves with the One Ring he created.  
  
Barthant thought of his brother, fighting alongside him. Elion had always been the taller and stronger of the two, but in battle he became terrified. How would he survive seeing his older brother disappear? Or would he instead see the fall of an empty shell, lifeless upon the battleground?  
  
Barthant had no wish to think any further of the matter.  
  
Instead, he began searching for a way outside, in order to fulfill other pressing needs of biology. The nurse sitting at the door noted his search for an exit and his dilemma, and showed him the indoor area known as a   
  
A bit later, the same nurse led him gently outside of the room, holding onto his arm. He was shown into a small chamber, the walls daubed purple for some reason, holding four metal chairs and an odd metal object on a table inside the circle made by the chairs. He did not even venture a guess as to what the object was, but he kept his eye on the thing warily. Something told him it could be perilous.  
  
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Frank was confused at first by the newfangled technology the doctor spoke of as they walked down the hall to the computer room. He understood only about every word in ten. Frank was not a clever or well-educated man.  
  
He had attended public school in the city from age five until finishing high school. Then, in 1971, he went straight to the New York Police Academy, undergoing a two-year training period. He graduated in 1973 and, coincidentally, read The Lord of the Rings the same year. Shortly afterwards, his parents died, and ever since, he had policed New York City. During the famous attack of the Two Towers nearly thirty years later, he had been on his regular beat, and by the time he was he got the radio message of the attack, it was too late for him to be of any help.  
  
After that the world got too confusing for a simple man, and Frank withdrew. Too old to serve his country and too young to retire, he centered his life around policing his beat. He lived in the house he had grown up in and stopped keeping up with world news.  
  
If he had, he might have noticed something which should have been noticed.  
  
Frank shook his head to clear the confused fog as he and the doctor entered the computer room. Seated in one of the chairs, looking uncomfortable, was the Elf. He was, up close, definitely an Elf. Frank did not know how an Elf could have ended up in New York, but a part of him said, _well, why not?_ It was no more strange than anything else he had seen in the world recently, as much as he was able to see on his old-fashioned one-dimensional television.  
  
Dr. Defir said uncomfortably.  
  
All right, said the Elf.  
  
Frank was surprised, until Dr. Defir gave him a glance.  
  
He's only mimicking my words, I'm afraid he doesn't actually seem to speak English, she said.  
  
Frank commented, trying to sound intelligent and aware that he was failing miserably. He straightened, taking a breath.  
I have an idea, he said. I need to use the computer, though.  
  
Melanie Defir raised an eyebrow at this. He didn't seem the type... but then, who was she to criticize, under these circumstances?  
  
You may use the translator computer in the translation room, if you wish, she said, wincing as the words came out sounding cold and pretentious. Well, how was she to know how to deal with this man? She was used to speaking with colleagues, or patients... she shook her head at this overjustification and tried to relax despite the utterly insane situation at hand. This was a mental hospital, after all. She gave a sardonic grin as she entered the translation room and faced the patient inside.  
  
So, Mr. Brumsen, do you have any idea what we're dealing with here, or is this as much a mystery to you as it is to me? she attempted a disarming smile, but it died somewhere in the quiet moment, as Frank stared at the patient with awe which was close to religious. Not that anyone was really religious, nowadays.  
  
I have some idea, Frank said cautiously, moving over to the computer. Let me try something first.  
  
Search Tolkien for me, he told the computer.  
  
Dr. Defir was baffled. The name was familiar... hadn't a man tried to make a movie ten years ago based on books written by a man of that name? Now she remembered. War had hit before it had been completed. She shrugged. Ah, well, it was only a movie.   
  
She was starting to doubt the sanity of the policeman, rather than the patient.  
  
The computer whirred for a minute, then up popped five Exonet® addresses. Frank put his hand to the hologram and pressed the button which read The Languages of Tolkien: Full Translations. Up came another link, and he saw a list. He scrolled down to the button reading and pressed it. The computer's automated voice spoke.  
  
Sindarin: common Elvish. And then, Two-way autotranslation commencing.  
  
To be perfectly honest, Frank had never used a hologram computer before. But the advertisements didn't lie; it was indeed easy enough for a monkey.  
  
Stupid advertising, thought Frank, was another thing which hadn't changed in the last ten years.  
  
He cleared his throat and looked at the Elf, who sat clenching the sides of his chair and staring at the rotating images on the hologram computer projection. He made it's okay motions with his hands, similar to the ones he made to criminals when trying to entice them to put the gun down.  
  
It hadn't worked then, as numerous bullet-wounds and a metal tibia painfully proved, and it didn't work now.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Barthant sat in the chair, clenching the sides tightly to keep from running at the sight of this spellcraft.  
  
Were these Men, then, sorcerers, to work such fell magic? Projected in the air were colors, shifting and wavering, and when he saw the Man reach in and touch the glowing image, he caught his breath in astonishment.  
  
When the Man made placating gestures, he knew he should have been comforted. But he was only calmed when the woman came forward. Her gentle hands on his shoulders were oddly comforting, and he caught hold of himself.  
  
_For shame_, Barthant! he mentally chided. _You are a warrior, not to be cowed by alien magic! These humans wish to help. _  
  
And he could tell, looking at the small, slight man and the woman with wise eyes, that they did.  
  
At the same time, Barthant felt incredibly lost. He had no idea where he was or what was happening to him. And he was frightened by the strangeness of the world in which he found himself. Grasping for inner calm, he settled himself in the chair.  
  
And rose in amazement a few minutes later, for the man was speaking to him in his native tongue.  
  
Pedich Sindarin? the man said slowly. His voice seemed to resonate a few seconds late, just after he spoke some words in the strange tongue of the Men in these parts.  
  
Barthant spoke eagerly.  
  
Pedin Sindarin! he exclaimed. _Yes, I speak Sindarin! My name is Barthant. How comes it that you speak my tongue? Where am I? What of my people, and the war we fight against Sauron? What of the last alliance, what of my brother, what of Gil-galad and Elrond Halfelven?  
  
Who are you?  
  
_The translating computer buzzed and hummed over these rapid-fire questions. Barthant widened his eyes as words issued from the thing. The small Man nodded, and spoke in his own tongue. Barthant heard words in Sindarin a heartbeat later:  
  
_My name is Frank Brumsen. I'm using a _computer, he indicated the machine on the table,_ to translate my words... it's a device, a machine, and it can do just about anything... well, anyway, just exactly who are your people? Where do YOU come from? This, here, is _New York_. On _Earth_. The year is 2013... I don't know how you got here._ _Are you,_ Frank paused, and swallowed. _Are you an Elf?  
  
This _computer,_ can you use it to send me home?  
  
No.  
  
How do you know of Elves? I was of the mind that the Men of this realm had no knowledge of us,_ Barthant then asked, puzzled. His mind whirled with questions, and he spoke eagerly, his body tensing as he stood, as though waiting for a fatal blow to strike. _For I am indeed of that race. I come from Arda, Middle Earth, call it what you will. My home is in Rivendell, called Imladris by my kind. And how is it that the year is so late? 2013... what Age is it? Where is this _New York_?  
  
_Frank paused. This was moving very fast... but an Elf! A true Elf! He quickly answered Barthant's questions, Dr. Defir looking on in amazement. She did not understand what was going on, Elves, Middle Earth, none of it was in the realm of her experience.  
  
_Um, I don't think we count our years in the same way... we don't have Ages, really. New York is in the, uh, realm of America, like a very large kingdom, I guess. Um... I know about Elves because this man, a writer, wrote books about you, about your history, I guess. It wasn't supposed to be real. Maybe in a parallel universe, or something like that, but I don't know how you got here._ Frank was certain he had made a mess of things, but he didn't know what to say. He never had, really.  
  
More was said, as the conversation moved on to introductions and personal histories, with the hands and eyes of the two men than the badly-translated words. They spoke of the world, of machinery, of geography. And for all this time, Dr. Defir remained quiet, sitting silently as she had in graduate school making field observations. She watched in awe as the old policeman and the being from another world spoke to each other through a computer.  
  
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Melanie Defir stood on the verge, a trembling ledge of indecision before her. An Elf. What was an Elf? Certainly not those small people from the cookie advertisements!   
  
She had a few questions of her own for this Elf, but the day was drawing on as she sat there patiently, watchfully. The man and the Elf were speaking about some place called Rivendell, and a Dark Tower, and something in her vaguely recognized a name, a place, a phrase before it slipped by like quicksilver, lost from her sight.  
  
Questions would wait until the next day, and for answers she would need to wait still longer.  
  
  
**Disclaimer:** I own none of Tolkien's ideas or works.   



	5. Chapter Four: But Now I See

**Chapter Four: But Now I See**  
  
_Barthant dreamed. Or was it a dream? It seemed so real. He could smell death on the air, blood from Elves, Men and things more foul, and before him he could see the black gates of Barad-dur. He felt oddly light, though, as he was swept through the gelid air. Glancing about him, he saw both armies battling. A flash of brown hair at the forefront of one column drew him, and he wavered closer, floating. He seemed to pass through the company effortlessly, unseen, and was made bolder as he moved on, gathering speed though his feet did not touch the ground.   
  
On the ground before him he saw a supine figure, neck cut open near the shoulder, hazel eyes staring at a red sky. Had he been able to utter a sound in this dream land, he would have screamed to rend the very air, but as it was he was left silent and helpless.   
Suddenly, he felt a great lurch, as though forces stronger than Sauron, stronger than Illuvatar, moved the very world, and he tumbled, head over insubstantial heels. When it settled back into place, the war continued and he steadied himself. It seemed no one had noticed the tremor aside from himself, had not even flinched.  
  
Save one. The body of the prone Elf-- HIS body-- was gone. In its place a single white flower sat on the floor of the battlefield. He reached down to take it, and had no sooner grabbed hold of the stem than he awoke.  
  
_He sat up with a start in the hospital bed, breathing shallowly. He did not know what was happening to him, what had happened to him. Yes, he knew he was on Earth, somehow. He was told his world was a book, though he did not believe it, or a parallel universe, though he did not understand it.  
  
But how could that explain what he found in his hand when he awoke? A single _alfirin_, the immortal white bloom he had lifted from the battlefield.  
  
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Far away in her own bed, Melanie Defir stirred as her cel phone rang. Uncharacteristically, she did not awaken. Had she known that the caller was a nurse reporting a missing patient, she would have answered, but something held her in sleep and she did not stir.  
  
In the morning when she checked her phone for messages on the way to work, she found none, and indeed no record of a call having been made the previous night. She was sure she could remember hearing a faint ringing as she slept, but shrugged it off. She trusted the clear evidence of the day more than the wanderings of a mind in the dark.  
  
Had Dr. Defir been of a superstitious or mystical mind, she might have sat up, then, and paid attention to the incongruencies she found. But the doctor had never been a mystic, even before the great War of the Religions wiped belief in God for the most part off the planet.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
The War had taken place from the year 2003 to 2006. It had started with the attack on the two Towers. Then Saddam had evaded capture in the East, electing to stay in Iraq and fight. He had built the Dark Tower, a pinnacle of defiance against the armies of the West, and inside had placed a single bomb. An atom bomb, which would be set off if the Tower were attacked. The pinnacle stood for three years, impervious to assault.  
  
A last coalition of American and European armies led a siege against Saddam, and after three painful years of battle on the plains before the Tower, one English general, General LeDurr, had managed to sneak into the tower and disarm the bomb. He did not destroy it, though the Americans begged him to do so. Instead, he bore it away to England for storage in the arsenal there.  
  
On the way his plane was shot down by some last straggling forces in Iraq, and the bomb was lost deep in an ocean. Things which should not have come to pass had, and things which ought to have been remembered were forgotten. And though no one knew it at the time, the world split apart, torn by allegory and coincidence, and fused with another world, one which did not truly exist.  
  
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Frank awoke early Sunday morning, feeling a bit of a pang not to hear the old church bells ringing. He had never been a churchgoer, himself, but he had awoken to the sound of the bells every Sunday for over fifty years nonetheless. And though they had not sounded for over eight years, now, he missed them keenly.  
  
Pulling himself out of bed stiffly, he rubbed his eyes and stared out the window at the city before him. Early sunlight, glaringly bright, dazzled his eyes and illuminated his dark and dingy appartment, painting the walls with the bright contrast of light and shadow.  
  
Frank believed in Good and Evil. He couldn't put it in concrete terms, but he never saw anything wrong with shooting a murderer or a brutal rapist. It was a sense he had, a sense that some things in the world were wrong. Many things in the world were wrong.  
  
Now he shut the drapes, and turned to his closet to dress himself, flicking on the lightswitch and picking out civilian clothes again. He was going to the hospital this morning, for another visit with the Elf. He could feel excitement swell in his throat like the stuck cork in a bottle at the very thought of it. Today, he would start teaching Barthant to speak English on his own.  
  
Why not come again, Dr. Defir had said. See what you can get out of him. It's good you've bonded, she had commented, nodding.  
  
All this spoken in a dryly professional voice, as she looked over her clipboard and under her rimless glasses.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Barthant sat silently on his bed, twirling the flower in his palms. With a pang in his chest, he saw the edges turning brown. This was not supposed to happen to _alfirin_ flowers! They were immortal and never faded. Never.  
  
How was Barthant to know what was real in this new land, though? No trees, no pure sunlight, only hard and glittering rock. Machines that sent a faint buzz through the back of his head day and night, a noise he had quickly become accustomed to because the only other choice would have been madness.   
  
He was lost here. He knew not what was happening.  
  
And, frightened, he waited eagerly as a child, though his childhood was many centuries past, for the coming of the Man who could speak with him. In the purple room, with the metal chairs and bars on the windows.  
  
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It was time. Melanie Defir straightened her gray doctor's uniform, freshly laundered the night before, and entered the office of Dr. Sam Whitney.   
  
She was here on official business, concerning the patient in room 136D.   
  
Dr. Whitney had no papers on his desk. The cold, white expanse held a hologram computer and an electronic filing system, a squat, square device with metal knobs. The doctor himself was austere in appearance, from his prematurely white hair to his immaculate hospital garb.   
  
Ah, Dr. Defir, he greeted her as she entered and sat down pensively before him. He did not pull out the chair for her or stand; not one to be accused of sex discrimination, Dr. Whitney. He was perusing the hospital computer records, and stopped at the previous day's conversation.  
  
Elvish, Dr. Defir. The patient in room 136D was speaking an imaginary tongue with a policeman-- unauthorized, may I add. What do you have to say for yourself?  
  
I, sir, have nothing to say for myself, said Dr. Defir, taken aback. I was merely humoring the man's delusions.  
  
Dr. Whitney looked at her, light gray eyes keen. His long face with its persed mouth looked ever narrower as he stared at her, disapproving. For a moment, she thought she saw oil spilled on his white hospital robes, throwing off slick multicolored reflections, and then it was gone, like a mirage. She forced her mind back to his words with difficulty as he spoke.  
  
... goes against new policy... Droussaint method of psychological alliance... not to humor a patient in this manner... have I made myself clear?  
  
She nodded numbly. Yes, sir. I only wished to-- how did you know the language was Elvish?  
  
It is here on the computer, Dr. Defir.  
  
But I... Melanie Defir had erased the records of the conversation the other day. She had no wish to inform the doctor of this attempted treason, though, so she held her tongue and turned to leave.  
  
Oh, and Dr. Defir? Sam Whitney asked as she left. Cross me again, and you are off the staff of this hospital, do you understand me?  
  
He stood, one hand extended, and gave her a bone-cracking handshake.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Frank entered the purple room and sat before the gleaming device on the table. He gazed at it out of the corner of his eye, waiting for Barthant to arrive.  
  
Instead, Melanie Defir entered the room, tight-lipped. He normally neat hair was askew, the silvery locks framing her face in a wild halo, and she held her clipboard with white-knuckled fingers.  
  
He stood to greet her, reflexively removing his ever-present hat.   
  
Is something wrong, ma'am? I mean Doctor? he asked.  
  
Melanie Defir paused. She thought back to the interview with Dr. Whitney.  
  
she said. Barthant is coming in a moment. But I must ask you...  
  
Frank's brow was creased with concern.  
  
Don't use the computer.  
  
Melanie Defir was beginning to see some incongruencies in the world.  
  
Then she was gone, retrieving Barthant herself as Frank opened to the updated appendices of Return of the King which he carried.  
  
Inside was a full Sindarin dictionary, luckily enough, provided by the Tolkien estate some years after his death and added to the 2002 published version which Frank had bought the day before.   
  
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Dr. Defir hastily led Barthant into the purple room and left on other business. He entered uncomfortably, seeing the strange machine-- computer, it was called- perched on the table. He heard it emitting a faint hum, and it made him uneasy, but he put it out of his mind. This computer was his only method of communication, foul or fair, and he meant to use it.   
  
But Frank did not reach over to turn the thing on as he had the day before. Rather, he opened a book and turned to the last few pages, clearing his throat, and spoke in halting Elvish.  
  
Barthant, listening, could scarce understand the man's words behind his harsh accent, the light tenor of his voice sounding surprisingly strident as he fumblingly spoke the Elvish words. Barthant shook his head, indicating incomprehension, and the man stopped and sighed, fidgeting with his odd, brimmed cap.  
  
You show me, said Barthant in slow, accented English. His voice held a lilting and musical note.  
  
Frank was not caught off guard. Elves, after all, invented language; this he knew. It stood to reason they woul learn quickly, and so he set to teaching Barthant to speak.  
  
he said, pointing to the object.  
  
Barthant repeated grimly. He was determined to learn this language. He had so many questions to ask, questions he could not and would not ask through the aforementioned computer.  
  
Noticing the Elf's gaze, Frank pointed to his eyes, watching the computer.  
  
You see. I see. We see the computer, he said, pantomiming all this watching in a rather comic manner, hands zigzaging from eyes to computer to Barthant's eyes and back to his own. Barthant understood.  
  
I see, he said.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Disclaimer:** I don't own anything the estimable J.R.R. Tolkien ever wrote. I... uh, it doesn't feel right to say something witty just now. 

* * *


	6. Chapter Five: 'Twas Grace that Taught

**Chapter Five: Twas Grace that Taught  
  
** said Frank, holding one up. He tore off a piece. A kind of bread, like. It was early on Wednesday morning, June 5, and he had just asked for a month-long vacation, the only one he had taken in his forty-year-long law-enforcement career, save for two days off in 73 for his parents' funeral. Now, he nodded at Barthant, handing him the chunk.   
  
Barthant recieved it eagerly and took a large bite.  
  
Bagel, it is called? he queried after chewing politely for a moment. I had it last day. It is good on the _lam_.  
  
Frank laughed at the odd wording. Well, no need to explain... _lam_ in Sindarin meant tongue, he had learned, and the Elf wouldn't get the cultural reference anyway. Though the Elf was learning remarkably quickly, even mimicking his accent to some degree, he still understood little of this new world. And the intricacies of slang were far beyond his grasp of the language.  
  
I am sorry... I am... not hearing why you _gladha._ Barthant was at a loss.  
  
Heh... hoho.. um... Why do I laugh? Oh, it's nothing, just, you know... I'll tell you when you're older. Frank smiled at Barthant, who chuckled. This he understood.  
  
You have for _an-uin, firion_? he teased. _You have for forever, mortal?  
  
_No, Elf, I don't. Frank felt comfortable teasing this Elf. They had learned much about each other when talking through the computer, and the rapport had not been lost when they turned to this more rudimentary form of conversation.  
  
Which is why we should really be concentrating on these verbs... they're the action things, right? he muttered to himself. Sighing, he perused the thick English Language text. In three days they had made a lot of progress, though there was a ways to go.  
  
Right... okay. We've covered see, eat, hold, read, shoot... um, have, to be, to go, to understand, to learn.... Oh, heck. I'm not a teacher! Frank threw up his hands.  
  
I learn many words, Barthant put in encouragingly.   
  
Frank gave a louder groan.  
  
The past tense! I forgot the past tense! Oh, screw it!  
  
Past... tense? Screw?  
  
Frank winced.   
  
Um, past tense is when something happened. Not happened, but has happened in the past, in the past tense. Let's see... he caught hold of his patience, and his tongue, with difficulty, and turned to another page of the English Language book. He was beginning to get a bit of a headache.  
  
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Time passed, as Time is wont to do. Three weeks had gone by since Barthant had entered the hospital, and the moist heat of early June turned to the heavy stillness and glaring sunlight of a fullblown New York summer.   
  
Melanie Defir lived in a world of hard, clean edges and and lines, bright whites and clearcut blackness. Only her hair, rapidly turning steely-gray with the inexorable passage of time, defied categorization in what had been a well-ordered life.  
  
Barthant had green-brown eyes that shone like the stars. Oh, Melanie Defir knew, could tell herself it was the odd membrane which brought such glittering depth to his gaze. Scientifically, it was a fact. Fact, such a clean, crisp syllable, falling away like a well-amputated limb. No lingering aftertaste of mystery. The word was not so precious to some, but the doctor worked in a mental hospital. Fact here was blurred, something one had to cling too as one walked down those deep and echoing white halls.  
  
Some patients were convincing. She spoke with one woman, a nervous and birdlike figure in her early thirties, who was in the hospital for schizophrenia and disorders related to hallucination and reality disruption. They had a perfectly reasonable conversation (the woman was a lawyer), that nonetheless shook Dr. Defir horribly.  
  
What is real? the woman had asked, looking at her with slightly glazed eyes after her medication. And Dr. Defir had found herself unable to answer.  
  
Reality nowadays was almost tenuous, a temperamental, changeable thing. Once solid, the world now shifted and moved like the mercury they had watched for, in times before specially automated filters took care of all that.  
  
The world spun, sometimes, and she couldn't grasp her thoughts with the clarity she always had.  
  
Various diagnoses flashed through her head, but she bore no classic Alzheimer's symptoms, or even signs of mild cognitive impairment common in people her age, 49. She never forgot her car keys or her alarm code, never forgot a patient's name or ailment. And yet.... there were some times... times when she felt that in the back of her mind lurked some fact, some important remembrance locked away in those dark recesses.   
  
It all tied in to her childhood somehow. But that was so long ago, now. So very long ago. In fact, Dr. Defir could not remember ever having actually been a child. Yes, she remembered being smaller, and shorter, but she had never made any of the humorous mistakes other children made, or had any adventurous escapades out of naiveté, because she had never been naive.  
  
She worried all the time, incessantly. She worried now, about Dr. Whitney, and was careful to stay away from the patient in 36D.  
  
But sometimes there was no helping it. She was drawn to him and the endless knowledge-- the knowledge for which she so thirsted-- that shone from his bright eyes. For this reason she made excuses for Frank Brumsen's frequent visits, naming him a language therapist who did policework on the side. He never knew she made his excuses, and she was not about to tell him.   
  
Until one day, about a month after Barthant had been brought into the hospital. From the purple computer room she heard the sound of singing.  
  
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,   
That saved a wretch like me....  
I once was lost but now am found,  
  
Was blind, but now, I see.  
  
T'was Grace that taught...  
  
The old policeman's voice was rough on the delicate words, and he half-hummed the song, but something in it struck a chord in Dr. Defir's heart. For a moment she almost remembered this song, sung to her so long ago in a childhood far away, and a deep instinct made her push the door to the room open before the next line could be uttered. For some reason she didn't want to hear the next line.  
  
She entered the purple room and Frank's song trailed off as he rose to greet her, sweeping the everpresent hat off his head. Barthant rose too, and stared at her in surprise.  
  
A! Elbereth Gilthoniel, he whispered in a half-song, and the words had the same tune as the song Frank had sung. The same tune, flung out like a lifeline it seemed to Dr. Defir.  
  
She smiled at the two, the cop with a bald head and the strange being standing next to him, and sat down with them. Melanie Defir was ready to learn and remember.  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: I own neither the words to the song A! Elbereth Gilthoniel! or Amazing Grace.   
On a side note, I do suggest looking up these two songs (you may find the former in the appendices of RotK). They'll give you some insight into this chapter. Back to the disclaimer: I don't own anything written by Tolkien, but Frank and Dr. Defir are my own creations.


End file.
